Always
by Locksmifff
Summary: Everlark fanfiction set after the end of Mockingjay. Warning: contains spoilers. Do not read if you haven't finished the series!
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

_I don't know how many days have passed. Months, even. How am I still alive?_

I don't leave my bed much anymore. I can live without eating. Actually, most days I don't. Greasy Sae comes over a couple of times a week to watch me eat some miniscule meal and tries to slide in a comment about how I'd look better with meat on my bones.

But so would most of District 12.

I've stopped speaking entirely. It's not that I can't, but there's nothing important enough to talk about anymore. The phone rings, but I don't answer. I almost feel the urge to rip it out of the wall like Haymitch did, but I know it would only bring more trouble. Dr. Aurelius

knows I'm here, I just won't answer. My mother calls sometimes, but hearing her voice only makes me think of…

The days pass in a blur. The mornings bring the hollow feeling, and the nights bring the plaguing nightmares. The only time I feel is when I'm dreaming.

District 12 has begun rebuilding itself after the Captiol's bombing. I occupy my days by staring out the window at the process. Some old inhabitants of Twelve have returned, but there are also some new faces. They spend most of their days clearing the rubble that was left over, using large machines to knock over half-standing buildings that avoided the worst damage. I watch clutching the curtains, prepared to hide if someone looks hopefully at my window. I don't like what I've become. I feel like a rabid animal kept in a cage.

Peeta returned a few weeks ago. It was during one of the nights where I would stay up in some sort of protest of the nightmares, tired of seeing my loved ones die over and over again.

I had my cheek pressed against the cool glass of my window and I had just decided to give in and doze off when I heard something outside. Crunching footsteps in the snow. I opened my eyes and saw him. He was stopped, halfway between our houses, having some sort of inner battle with himself. I watched in a slight trance, my hand caressing my neck where the bruises used to be.

He took a step towards my house, murmuring to himself, hands twitching slightly and then looked up at my window. Even with so much space between him, I could still see the color of those blue eyes. I stared back, wondering if it was too late to hide behind the curtain when he dropped his head and continued towards his house.

I watched him close the door, and saw him light the fire inside. I watched the flames flickering and knew, just as he did, that we would both be up all night.

It isn't long before I hear the soft knock on my door. I brace myself, wrapping my arms tightly around my stomach as if to keep all the pieces in place. I don't answer, but he lets himself in anyways, closing the door quietly behind him.

My eyes are closed, but I feel the couch sink as he sits next to me. I hear his steady breathing, and find the courage to look at him. I regret it immediately, flinching at his expression, which is hard. He's looking at me so intensely that I almost feel frightened. Just as I'm about to scream, his eyes soften. They still look a little crazy; his pupils are dilated and his eyes are a sea of blue. His hands, which were clenched into fists, loosen and begin twisting into each other nervously.

We don't talk. We just sit there, staring, becoming familiar with each other again. It's funny, the things you notice about a person whom you haven't seen in months. His arms, which were once strong and sturdy, are as thin as mine. His fingernails are bitten to the point of bleeding, and his hands tremble. His hair has grown out; the sandy blonde tips of his bangs just touch his eyelashes. I stare at his long, pale eyelashes. They haven't changed a bit.

Every day he returns, staying a little bit longer, and leaves before it gets dark. Sometimes he brings a sketchpad, doodling absentmindedly until he remembers that he's supposed to go home. A few times, he opens his mouth, brows knit together, about to ask a question when he stops himself and keeps drawing.

I feel the need to hear his voice. I know I shouldn't, but it's been so long that I find myself wondering if it still sounds the same.

One day, when he's leaning against the wall, sketchbook face down on his chest, staring outside, I give in. I nudge his leg with my toe and break him from his trance.

"Hmm?"

I nod my head at his drawing, wordlessly telling him that I want to see it.

He glances down at the drawing and then back up at me, overcome by some sort of strange emotion. I prop myself and start to crawl so I'm sitting with my back against the wall next to him. He turns the sketchpad away from me and drops his head.

Suspicious, I snatch the pad from him. I look down, figuring that it's a picture of me and feel my heart ache. Her blonde hair is in two braided pigtails, the way my mother would do it every morning before she left for school. She's in the dress that she wore the day the television crews came to film me in my wedding dresses. Her eyes are bright, filled with so much light that even the darkest days of District 12 could not have put them out.

A single sob escapes me before his arms are around me. I feel my body crumple, my wind knocked out of me. I don't know how long into the night I cried, but we stayed there, on the floor of my living room all night. He stroked my hair for hours, and when he finally said his first words to me, he murmured them to me the whole night.

"It's okay."

"It's okay."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

I wake up, my hand stretched across the bed. Empty.

I stretch, which has become a painful process. My skin is too tight. My bones feel like they're trying to escape from my body. Dr. Aurelius informed me that once my skin grafts started to heal, they would begin to itch. Whatever I do, I'm not supposed to scratch them. My body looks like a quilt of skins, stitched together like some sort of experiment. Which it is. I feel like I should be in a dish, under a microscope. The thought alone makes me want to itch. I clench my fists, and realize that I've opened up cuts on them that I made last night. Or the night before. I don't know anymore.

I hear a noise downstairs. I tense, which hurts. I make my way silently downstairs. The feeling is familiar; stalking my prey.

I hear the clatter of dishes. Peeta. It must be. Is he ever going to just leave me alone?

"Good morning, Katniss." He says, with a small smile. "How are you?"

He's looks weary. He's wearing the same clothes as yesterday, which means he must've spend the night over my house. I don't know how to feel about this.

I stare back, not responding. I'm sure Sae told him that I don't talk anymore. He seems to accept this and begins wiping his hands on his apron.

I feel something trickle and realize I must be digging my nails into my fists again. I try to hide them behind my back but it's too late. Peeta notices the movement.

"Let me see them." He says calmly, walking over slowly.

I hesitate. Will he have some sort of reaction to the blood? I don't think I can handle one of his flashbacks at the moment. I'm not strong enough.

"Please," he says tiredly, "I promise, I'm okay."

I grimace and open my hands, palms up, and show him the gouges. My fingernails are caked with blood.

"Katniss," he sighs, with a tinge of pain in his voice. "Come here."

He leads me over to the kitchen sink. He turns on the faucet and waits for me to clean the cuts. Instead, with the water running, I look out of the window above it. Is it spring already? The trees are starting to bud again.

How long have I been home?

I can hear the birds chirping. I want to go outside, and smell the fresh air. Everything looks new again. Wildflowers are starting to bloom in the backyard, and the bees are buzzing around, happily pollinating each one. A feeling of warmth starts to spread through my body; one that I haven't felt in so long. I see a bird land on one of the branches of an oak tree. It chirps happily. My mouth starts to curve into a smile when I see its wings. Wings with white stripes.

A mockingjay.

I'm start to gasp for air. My heart begins beating so fiercely I think it's trying to escape my ribcage. Every pore in my body is screaming in agony.

It starts to sing a four note song. It's all too familiar.

I hear her scream.

"Katniss!"

I beg my mind to lose consciousness, submerge itself as it does so often. But I can't. Her cries are still echoing in my brain.

I run towards her voice. She stands there, on the tips of her toes, arms stretched out slightly, as if she's about to fly. But it's too late. Her eyes are wide with fear and filled with tears as she looks down and sees the spear piercing her stomach. She falls into my arms, and the blood on my hands is no longer mine, but hers. Her eyes become glassy and I feel her body release its last breath. I feel myself falling backwards into nothingness. I'm gone.

"Sing."

Her voice starts to fade.

I stir, and rub my eyes. Someone bandaged my hands while I was sleeping. It was probably him. I feel my stomach clench. I wonder how he got these on in the first place. I hope I wasn't thrashing too much.

"How are you feeling?"

Peeta's sitting in my chair, hands folded, looking at me with concern. I'm too numb to be surprised. I sit up, and wait for him to speak.

I stare. He stares back. This continues for a few minutes.

"You scared me," He says. I can tell he's trying to keep a steady voice, but it shakes a little at the end.

He looks at me, hoping I'll respond. He knows better. His face shows so much concern that it's making me uncomfortable. Instead, I resort to staring at his eyelashes, which at the moment are almost white with the sun reflecting off of them.

"You were out for two days," he continues. "I called Dr. Aurelius and he said he's sending over new medicine for you. He thought the other pills were working."

_They would be, if I were taking them_ I think to myself. A bubble of laughter escapes my lips and Peeta looks at me with furrowed brows. I wonder if he finally realizes that I'm crazy yet.

"He also asked me to check on your grafts, to see if you were taking care of them."

I look down at my arms with a twinge of guilt. It's true that I haven't been putting my ointments on them. But I haven't been scratching either. It's good enough for me.

I look back up and see Peeta looking at me like I'm a child. I suddenly feel itchy. I pull my sleeves down, hoping that he didn't get a good look at them.

He stands up, and plops on the bed next to me.

He holds his hand out, and I place my arm in it. Carefully, he rolls my sleeves back up and observes the damage. The skin is so tight on my arms that they feel ready to burst. He pulls a tube of ointment out of his pocket and squeezes some onto his fingers. It smells like mint. He starts with my wrist, spreading the medicine up higher and higher. He pauses, stroking the large indent where Johanna dug the tracker out of my skin. Goosebumps start to rise on my arms and we both look up at each other.

"This is from the last night of the Quarter Quell?" he asks quietly.

I nod. I remember thinking that Johanna was trying to kill me.

"They told me that you left me there on purpose. That you knew about the whole rebellion and I was never supposed to make it out alive." He looks away, eyes strained in concentration. I assume he's talking about his torturers in the Capitol. He's no longer in the room anymore. He's somewhere far away, trying to make sense of his memories.

"It's not true though, at least I don't think," He continues, "You were calling my name, right? I remember that. Why would you call for me if you didn't care about me?"

He looks back, eyes boring into mine, trying so fiercely to understand what happened. Without thinking, he places both of his hands on either side of my face. I jerk away and spring up at the contact.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…" He trails off, hands still outreached in the air, covered in the pink ointment. His eyes are filled with shame.

I feel something lurch in my stomach and I almost want to tell him that it's not his fault. But it is. If he had just never confessed his love for me, none of this would have ever happened. I would have killed him. I would be living with my mother and Prim in Victor's Village, not alone and mentally unstable with the ghosts of a rebellion. I start to clench my fists again and look down to see the blood spotting the bandages.

"Katniss..." Peeta seems to have picked up on my brewing anger.

He starts to walk towards me, hands out in front of him, as if to show me that he's not going to hurt me. I start to laugh manically at the fact that he believes that I could possibly hurt any more. I don't believe that it's humanly possible to feel any more pain that what I feel now. With every step he takes forward, I match him with one backward. He starts to open his mouth to say something else, but I turn and bolt out of the room and through the front door as fast as I can.

This is my first time outside since I saw Peeta planting the primrose bushes. I'm running without a real sense of purpose. I'm back in the arena, running from Cato, my tracker jacker stings causing hallucinations. There's a door in the middle of the forest. I open it and fling myself through, tripping over a branch. I lay there, on a bed of leaves, waiting for someone to find me. It's only a matter of time. I'm shivering, my teeth chattering.

I look up and see the anthem playing. The faces of the dead flash before my eyes, each one pulling me deeper into the darkness. Glimmer, Rue, Clove, Cato, Foxface. I try to close my eyes but I only see more faces. Cinna, Finnick, I've killed them all. Prim. I hear a scream from a distance, and it sounds like wounded prey. I come to realize that it's my own.

I open my eyes and Peeta's face in hanging in the sky. I've killed him. I beg myself to let the numbness take over, but it never happens. I see each face; feel each stab of pain, and my body tremors with each new wave. I feel a pair of hands around my face, someone has finally found me. I stop screaming, and realize that it's finally over. I'll be the next face in the sky. I feel fingers shoving something in my mouth, choking it down with water. I feel the darkness wash over me and accept my death with a final smile.


	3. Chapter 3

I rouse to find that my hands are tied down. I haven't died yet. Maybe the careers have been torturing me, prolonging my death to give the audience what they want. I open my eyes, and find that instead of rope, my hands are tangled in the sheets of a bed that isn't mine. I look for the menacing eyes of the careers but instead I find those startling blue ones. They're the closest to me that they've been in months.

"Peeta."

I immediately clap my hand to my mouth. It's the first word I've said since I've come back.

His eyes widen in surprise and then soften again.

"Hey," He breathes. "You're okay."

I realize that his hand is cupping my face, and I start to flinch back but then I stop. His hand is warm against my skin and smells faintly of cinnamon. I give in out of curiosity and start using my words again.

"Where am I?" I ask. My voice sounds weird, even to me. Hollow. Like my mouth is moving but someone else is talking.

Peeta observes me for a moment, with a hint of a smile on his face. He responds,

"We're in my bedroom. After you ran out I went looking for you. I figured you'd come back after the sun set but you never showed up. I started looking for you and eventually heard you screaming…"

He pauses for a second, with a look in his eyes that I can't really read.

"My name, actually. You were screaming my name."

If my skin hadn't been through so much torture in the past months, I may have started blushing. I'm not one to be dependent on anyone, especially Peeta. His help makes me feel weak. I glance back up at him, trying to look as emotionless as possible.

He continues, "So I eventually found you in your old home. Well, what's left of it."

My stomach lurches. My old home? I swore I'd never return there after I got back from the Capitol. I don't clearly remember what it looked like last night. I thought I was back in the arena. I wonder if I was imagining seeing the sky or if my old home's roof collapsed during the bombing of District 12. I decide it's probably best if I don't know.

I nod.

"I carried you back here so I could keep an eye on you. I gave you some of your medicine too, so after a while your nightmares stopped and you were just sort of out for about a day."

I start to feel guilty again. I can't weigh more than a hundred pounds, but I know with his artificial leg it still must've been hard to carry me, especially if I was thrashing around. Then, I feel angry for feeling guilty. He didn't have to come after me. I didn't ask him to take care of me. He didn't even have to come home. Why _did_ he come home?

Peeta is looking at me anxiously, and I decide to push my anger aside.

"Thanks" I reply. And I try to mean it.

He smiles at me, genuinely happy to hear my voice again. Before I know it, my lips are curving upward. I catch myself, but he's already seen me. He makes this so hard, being so likable.

"I'm sure you're hungry. Let's go make you some breakfast." He says, holding out his hand for me to take. I hesitate, but take it after a moment. He helps me up and then starts towards the kitchen, giving me time to adjust.

I feel claustrophobic. I can't be here. I look at the clock on his bedside table. It's a little after noon. I don't want to go home, especially not to an empty house. But I can't be around Peeta. There's only one other option I can think of. Haymitch.

I quietly slip out of the door while Peeta is running the sink. He won't follow me. I walk to the next house over, which has over time become a shabby version of mine and Peeta's. It hasn't fallen apart exactly, but its owner doesn't exactly upkeep the place. The door is cracked slightly ajar and I almost plug my nose and enter when I hear him shouting from around back.

"Damnit! Will you let me break off a piece of bread before you – ouch!"

I walk around the house to the backyard, which has been completely overtaken by geese. They're all huddled around Haymitch, who has now jumped up, as the birds start to flap their wings with impatience and attempt to bite his fingers.

I start to laugh. Not in my usual, empty way, but hysterically. I'm hunched over, gasping for air when I hear Haymitch grunt "Oh hell," and chuck the loaf across the yard.

The geese scramble for the bread and begin to fight over it. Just as I'm recovering, Haymitch stumbles over. He's clearly drunk, but it's not the worst I've ever seen him.

"Well, look who's finally decided to come join the rest of the civilization!" Haymitch says, motioning around him to the geese.

It feels good to be around Haymitch again. Drunk or not, he has always understood me. I give him a warm smile and sit on the concrete steps of the house. He joins me and watches the geese with a fond expression.

"So how's it going Mockingjay? Is there a reason you wanted to see me or are you just pleased to be back in my presence?"

I stare at my knees. I don't exactly know why I'm here. I just couldn't stand to be around Peeta any longer. He's just too calm. It's as if nothing had ever happened. I can't pretend to be normal like he does. I can't just go on with my life.

Haymitch is looking at me expectantly. I open my mouth to say something but I don't know how to phrase it.

"Oh, don't give me the 'I can't speak anymore' crap. I know Peeta puts up with it but I won't." He snaps, pulling out a flask and taking a deep swig.

"Sorry," I say, feeling a little flustered. Have they been talking about me? "I just… don't know how to be normal anymore."

"So you came to see me?" He snorts. "Maybe if you talked to that psychiatrist every once in a while you would."

I deflect his statement. I'm not talking to some Capitol doctor who thinks I'm mentally deranged. Instead, I form a new answer.

"I don't know how to be around Peeta anymore."

Haymitch's eyes cast downwards. He scowls, fiddling with the cap of his flask before answering, "I know. So does he. But somehow, that boy is still as in love with you now as he was when he was five years old."

I figured as much, but hearing it from Haymitch makes it even worse.

"I don't know what love is anymore. Everyone I've ever loved is dead." I whisper, tears brimming my eyes.

"Peeta isn't." he quips.

"Yes he is. At least, the part of him I used to know. This new Peeta only knows that he used to love me, and he thinks that's what he's supposed to do. How can you love someone who's only a shell of their former self?"

"Katniss…" Haymitch mutters, clearly exhausted. "Peeta has made enormous progress since he's come home. His memories are starting to come back slowly. He comes over once a week with at least a hundred questions for me to answer. Most of them about you. And most of them I can't answer."

A hard lump is forming in my throat. I swallow it back down, and look up into his eyes. They're hard now, determined for me to see the truth.

"Now, I don't mean to say that you haven't needed time, sweetheart, but you're not the only one hurting here. If you didn't lock yourself in your room and sleep all day you'd be able to see that. Part of his life is missing, and you're the only one who can fix that," He pauses. "He may seem normal now, but he's only keeping it together because of you. I'm not saying that you two need to be 'star-crossed lovers' again, but at least offer him your friendship. Offer to answer his questions. He's wanted to talk to you about it for months but he's too afraid to upset you."

I squint my eyes, looking ahead at a goose happily snacking on some bread. Obviously, these two have been talking. I knew it was only a matter of time. But this?

I can't owe him this. Haven't I owed him enough? I can't re-live my past like that. It's too painful. I can't even imagine the things he would ask.

Clearly seeing the denial on my face, Haymitch asks the question that always hurts the most. "If the roles were switched, wouldn't he do it for you?"

Yes. Without a doubt. He would answer every question as detailed as possible until I remembered every thing that had ever happened. He might even draw them for me. He would do everything possible. But I am selfish. I am stubborn. I try to imagine losing every memory I've had since the reaping. Would I want to know everything? Every person I've killed in and out of the arena?

My immediate answer is no. I feel disgusted, repulsed by the thought of having to hear about all of the people I've murdered. But I stop. How would it feel, not to know who you were? Who you are?

In the end, I guess if it came down to it, I would want to know. For the sake of knowing that I was, and am, a good person.

Except I'm not. But Peeta is.

With this new epiphany, I stand up, thank Haymitch, and start towards Peeta's house. I feel different, almost determined, to make him remember everything. He deserves it. I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts as I swing open the door.

My hunter's instincts kick in. I smell blood.

I close the door as quietly as possible and silently cross to the kitchen. I hear a crunch and see that there's broken glass all over the floor. _Not good_, I think to myself. I'm about to call out his name when two pairs of hands grab my shoulders and slam me against the wall.

His hands are on either side of me, trapping me there. His pupils are nonexistent, completely vanished out of madness. He's dripping beads of sweat, and his teeth are gnashed together with such ferocity that I shrink against the wall in fear.

"You left me" he states, his voice cold, no longer filled with the warmth that I know.

"I – I'm sorry, I just needed some fresh air…" I start, but he interrupts.

"You left me to die!" He shouts in my face.

I turn away, shocked by his outburst but also confused. "Peeta, you – you're not dying."

His eyebrows knit together, his face filled with a crazed desperation.

"I was. And you didn't save me. You left me alone in that mist, laughing and pointing while I dragged myself out. You wanted me to die!"

He lifts his right hand and punches the wall. There's a cracking sound which means that he's broken his knuckles. He yelps, retracts his hand and cradles it to his chest, staring at it with wild eyes.

I close my eyes, trying to keep my tears in. He's having a flashback to the Quarter Quell. The gas that killed Mags. I think about that moment when I realized that I couldn't drag him along anymore. In that split second, I had the instinct to flee, to leave him behind to save myself.

I slide down the wall and cradle my knees in my arms, shaking like a leaf. I hear him crumble next to me and open my eyes to see him twitching, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

I can't even move to help him. He eventually falls into some form of unconsciousness, rocked every once in a while by spasms and shouts. His hands are bloody, and I assume he burst the glass that is scattered throughout the kitchen. His knuckles are starting to swell, turning a slight bluish shade.

I have to crawl, cutting my knees on the broken glass in the progress, but I successfully collect a bag of ice and return to his limp body. I drag him over so that his head is lying in my lap and his hands are on his chest. I lay the ice over his fist, and tilt my head back against the wall.

He thinks I tried to kill him. He thinks that I watched him, laughing, as he dragged himself out of the jungle. I feel sick, and have to swallow bile that's risen in my throat.

What makes it worse is that he's not far from the truth. I almost left him. I almost abandoned him to save myself. I'm a horrible person. Haymitch is wrong; no one could ever love me. Especially Peeta. I am the monster that haunts his nightmares.

I begin hyperventilating, clawing my chest until I break skin, gasping for air until the hallway lurches and I'm in danger of passing out. I almost welcome it. I don't want to feel anymore.

Peeta's stopped jerking and now lays still, but he's still whimpering. At first, I think it's out of pain, but then he starts to form words.

"Please," he whispers, quietly begging. Tears start to spill out of his eyes, and he begins sobbing uncontrollably.

"Please, please, no," he keeps repeating.

I can't take it any more. Tears fill my eyes and I begin rocking him back and forth, cradling him in my arms.

"I'm sorry" I whisper over and over, voice breaking, after each one of his pleas. I know he's dreaming of me. I must be torturing him. If he woke up again, I'm sure he would attack me. Wrap his fingers around my throat again and squeeze the life out of me until my eyes became glassy like a doll's. I don't think I would stop him.

We stay there, the whole night. Peeta soaks the front of my shirt with his tears, and I play with his hair, wiping the sweat off of his face, praying that he slips into a dreamless sleep. He stays curled in my lap, clutching to me like a child until we both finally drift off to another world.


	4. Chapter 4

**Note: Thanks to everyone for reading! I love all of your reviews, good or bad! This chapter was pretty difficult to write, but I hope that everyone enjoys it. Bear with me as I'm starting summer classes soon, but I'll be sure to update as soon as possible**_._

_You're never going to feel as full as you felt  
So let's go outside and we'll play William Tell  
Take your time drawing your bead  
I'll stand as still as you need  
'Cause you're so good at talking smack,  
You heart attack  
But you're the apple of my eye anyway_

_-"You Won't Know", Brand New_

Chapter Four

I wake up finding myself tangled once again in the sheets of Peeta's bed. I don't remember moving, so I assume that he carried me here. My neck is stiff from falling asleep against the wall, and I feel dehydrated from crying so much. I get up, my bones creaking wearily and walk to the kitchen. The glass is no longer on the floor, but instead it's been swept up in a dust bin. The only thing remaining is the mess of blood smeared across the tile. I catch a glimpse of my knees, which have jagged cuts across them from crawling. I sigh, wondering how many more scars I can accumulate on my body before it finally deteriorates.

I feel the silence of the house pressing in on me and realize I have no idea where Peeta is. I shuffle around downstairs, calling his name in a raspy voice but find no answer. I have never seen his whole house before. When I push the door open to what I assume is a guest bedroom, I feel something alive, deep inside of me, stirring.

I've found his studio. Well, almost. It once was a bedroom, maybe one of his brothers', but it's been transformed. There are canvases everywhere, leaning against every surface, some finished, some still in progress. The room smells heavily of oil paints, and it reminds me of the lingering scent that sometimes clings to Peeta's clothes.

I step in, careful not to touch anything, and look around. I see a picture of the Cornucopia, gleaming in the hot sun and immediately cringe away from the it. I bump into a larger canvas and turn to catch it before it falls. I look up at it, transfixed. It's the largest painting in the room, and it's sitting in front of the bay window, bathed in the morning light. It's so real, so heartbreakingly real that I have to grit my teeth so I don't sob and clutch myself to keep the pieces together. I feel the grief inside of me stretching, trying to push its way out of my body, but I gasp for air, fighting back.

It's a painting of the last happy memory I have. A distant one, one that feels so far away that I almost forget it existed. It's Finnick and Annie on their wedding day. Annie's bright eyes are gleaming with joy as she looks down at her hands, which are clasped with Finnick's, whose eyes are glued to her face, as if trying to memorize every small detail of it. She's wearing one of the dresses that Cinna made for me, one that I wore during the Victory Tour after the Games. There's a net wrapped around their shoulders; a custom from District 4. I lift my finger carefully, hovering over the painting, and I can almost remember that day…

"Are you ready, Annie?" I ask.

Annie is sitting in the small quarters that I share with my mother and Prim, looking out of the small strip of window that we're allowed to have for Buttercup's sake. She has a finger pressed to the window, eyes fixed in concentration as she follows the trail of a ladybug that's making its way through the grass. She turns her wide eyes to me, mouth parted slightly, as if forgetting where she is. I give her a tentative smile and she bites her lip and beams in return.

"I think so." She whispers.

I nod, helping her up and straightening her necklace. It's long, and made of pearls that match her earrings. My stomach clenches, remembering the pearl hidden inside of my dresser. _I'm not supposed to think about him anymore_, I remind myself. I walk her towards our floor length mirror to let her take a look at herself. She stops, gazing at the dress, made of blue silk, in the mirror.

"Thank you for letting me borrow this dress. I'm sure you looked very pretty in it." She murmurs.

"It looks even better on you, I promise." I touch her arm lightly. It really does. She looks radiant in it, even if she doesn't realize it herself. I didn't mind giving up the dress at all. In fact, I feel much better knowing that it's no longer sitting in my closet in District 12 collecting dust. Better knowing that now it'll be associated with happier memories. Not the Victory Tour. Not when my life was being displayed on camera, when I was forced to twirl in his arms, forcing a smile, pretending to be in love…

"It was his favorite dress on you." She says softly, then pauses, watching me through the mirror. "Peeta, I mean. He seemed to… remember… when he came in earlier" She says even quieter.

I feel my heart ache. I don't want to think about him now. Not today. Not on a day that's supposed to be so joyful. I can't think about him. I cast my eyes downward, staring at my feet, not knowing how to respond.

"He's still there, Katniss."

I nod at my toes, not knowing what else to say. I don't believe it. I could never believe it. He's lost, and he's never coming back…

I bring myself back to the studio, back to the painting. I don't want to think about Annie now; it's too painful. I turn away, trying to forget the look of sheer bliss on their faces, and find Peeta standing in the doorway. He looks horrible. Dark circles hang under his bloodshot eyes, and his hand, which is now wrapped, has turned slightly purple.

"Peeta…" I start, but the look in his eyes brings me to a halt. His jaw clenches, and his eyes are hard, staring at me with such intensity it makes my heart thump in my chest.

"Did I…" He starts, walking towards me with his arms outstretched. He stops, a few feet away, and shudders, shaking his head as if reminding himself to keep his distance. His hands still hover in the air. "Did I hurt you?" His voice is low, defeated, cracking at the end. His eyes hover on my knees, which are smudged with blood.

I stare into his eyes. He looks broken. I imagine myself cupping his cheek with my hand, rubbing the dark circles underneath his eyes, but I tear myself from the thought. I'm not supposed to want that. He wouldn't want it either. I bite the inside of my cheek.

"No."

His face floods with relief, but a moment later his eyes fill with determination.

"I need you to leave." He says firmly.

I feel like I've been slapped.

"W – What?" I stutter.

"Please," He whispers, "You don't get it. I thought I hurt you. I _could_ have. I can't bear to think of what I might've done. I can't take that chance anymore. Please, I need you to understand."

_Understand?_ How can I possibly understand? He's the only person I have left that hasn't abandoned me. I think of my mother, who can't look at me without seeing Prim. I think of Gale, who ran off because I don't know how to love him the way he wants. I think of all the people that have died because of me. If he leaves, I'll have nothing left. Yet he thinks he needs to protect me from himself.

I was wrong: he doesn't think of me as a monster. He thinks of _himself_ as one. Anger thrashes inside of me, making my temples throb.

"I'm not leaving." I say steadily, my eyes hard on his, hands clenched in fists.

His eyebrows come together, and a look of frustration crosses his face. "I could have killed you last night." He says harshly, his face turning red. "I wanted to. Did you know that? I wanted to wrap my fingers around your throat again. Does _that_ make you want to leave?"

I feel like my insides are trying to escape. Anger boils in my stomach, clawing its way up my throat. My veins feel like they're pumping ice water and I feel the room sway around me. _He wanted to kill me. Somewhere inside him, he still wants to kill me,_ I repeat to myself. Instead of scaring me, it makes me more furious, more determined to show him the truth. This isn't him; this is the Capitol's creation. I gnash my teeth together.

"No." I whisper, tears spilling over my cheeks. Haymitch told me I needed to open myself up to him. I don't know how else but to tell him the truth. "Because I'm already dead."

"Don't say tha –" he begins, pain filling his eyes.

"No." I interrupt, my voice rising, "You listen to me. I'm already gone. But you're not. There's still good in you, I know it's there. And I'm going to help you see it. I don't care whether you want me around. I'm not going anywhere."

It's the most I've spoken since I've been home and yet it's not enough. Without thinking, I close the distance between us and throw my arms around him, pressing my face into his chest. I don't care that I'm not supposed to do this.

Peeta's body tenses at first, but it only makes me grip him tighter. He eventually relaxes, and his fingers tangle themselves in my hair and his cheek presses against my head. I listen to his heartbeat which is thumping erratically against my ear. My insides loosen as I close my eyes and breathe in his scent.

Haymitch was right. Peeta needs me. I can't be selfish anymore. I have to put all of my effort into this. I have to make him remember who he is. He needs me. As I listen to his breathing steady itself, I feel somewhere, underneath the creature growling inside of me, the recognition that I might need him too. _And that frightens me more than anything._


	5. Chapter 5

I grit my teeth, clutching my stomach without thinking. This hurts more than I thought.

"These aren't going to get easier, you know." Peeta eyes me carefully.

"I know" I say in a low voice.

"You can tell me to stop if you want." He says lightly, inspecting his fingernails. But I know he's only pretending.

"It's okay." I mutter.

We're sitting at my kitchen table eating stew that Greasy Sae dropped off. Ever since I decided to help Peeta, I agreed to answer his questions to help strengthen his memory. It hasn't been particularly fun. Actually, it's been painful. But I know that he hasn't even started asking the questions that he really wants to. The thought makes me squirm in my seat.

Peeta has a leather notebook open and lying on the table. He said that Dr. Aurelius had him keep a journal of running questions, strange memories, and letters so that he could go back and sort everything through. I try to keep my eyes away from the pages, but every once in a while glance down to see his messy handwriting scrawled across the page in cramped letters. I have to remind myself that it's his business and look away before he notices.

The last round of questioning had to do with the reaping of our first Hunger Games. I'd just started answering who came to visit me while we were waiting in the Justice Building. I've already finished telling him about Gale, Madge, and my mother and Prim. My heart feels like its being squeezed whenever I say her name.

"Okay," he says, writing a note in the corner of a page, "Anyone else?"

It feels like so long ago. Another lifetime. I squint my eyes, looking out the window. Clouds are rolling in, turning everything a miserable gray. It's going to rain soon.

"Yes," I say suddenly, "Your… your father."

I turn slightly and see Peeta's eyebrows disappear into his shaggy blonde hair. I don't know if he knew that his father came to see me before the hijacking. I'd wondered if he suggested it, even. His father was a warm man, always had a smile on his face, unlike his witch of a mother.

"He… came to see you? Had you two ever talked before?" He asks quietly.

"No – well, yes, but only when I would sell him game. I would come by each week to sell him my squirrels." I flush, thinking about when Peeta complimented me on the train about my good aim.

He concentrates on the wooden table, tracing the grain with his fingers.

"What did he say?"

I strain to remember. "Not much. He gave me some cookies from the bakery," I pause, looking down in shame, remembering that I threw them away, "and he told me that he'd keep an eye on Prim. He was very fond of her. Most people were."

I give him a small smile, wavering a little as I think of Prim's blonde head bobbing around.

He can tell that I can't take talking about her anymore. He stares at me with a strange look in his eyes. Pity. That's the weird thing about Peeta. No matter how much he's been through, he still has the capacity to feel bad for me. I stare back until I feel a blush start to creep into my cheeks. We both look away hastily. He makes a quick note in his book and flips through to find another question.

"Okay," he says, tapping his chin lightly with the pen, "Let's see here…"

As I watch him look for another question, I notice his body tense. He glances up at me hastily, and flips the page so quickly he almost tears the paper out of the book.

"What?" I ask. I know I probably don't want to hear the question, but I'm genuinely curious as to what kind of memory could give him such an odd reaction.

"It's… nothing" He mumbles, still flipping through the pages.

Suddenly I'm self conscious. _What is it?_ I find myself craving to know.

"You can ask me, really. I promise I won't get upset." I say, looking into his eyes.

I watch his ears turn a slight crimson color. "I don't think _upset_ is what you'll be. Just drop it. Please?" He looks uncomfortable.

I feel neck getting hot. _What could that possibly mean?_ I sift through my stew, trying to find more potatoes.

After a few minutes of playing with my food, I realize that I no longer hear the flutter of pages. I look up to see Peeta observing me.

"You don't like carrots." It's not really a question. His eyes are inquisitive. I glance at my bowl to see that I've unconsciously pushed the carrots to one side, picking around them completely.

I wrinkle my nose. "No, I only like raw carrots. But I usually try not to be picky like this." I gesture with my spoon to the pile. Before the games, I would've eaten anything. I get a lump in my throat thinking of all of the hungry days my family had. Being picky wasn't an option then.

He takes the pen out of his mouth and makes a note in the back of his notebook. I roll my eyes because it's so ridiculous. Who cares about such an insignificant piece of information? _Let him be_, I tell myself. _If you lost your memories every little detail would matter to you, too. _

Peeta pushes his chair back, making a scraping sound against the floor.

"I'm going to go get some firewood from out back before it starts to rain."

I nod, looking over at the dying fire. I stand up and gather our bowls, taking them over to the sink.

Overall, the day hasn't been too bad. So far we've discussed the food from the Capitol, Peeta's team of stylists, and the many changing colors of Ceasar Flickerman's hair. They're trivial things, I know, but it doesn't matter. I can tell it's making him feel better. He actually laughed remembering how Ceasar had his tounge dyed blue to match his hair and makeup for our first interviews with him. In the back of my mind I get a nagging feeling that Peeta's hesitating. He's hedging around the difficult questions and I know I won't want to answer them.

I almost drop a plate as a crack of lightning slices through the sky. The peal of thunder shakes the house, making it seem eerily empty. A few fat drops fall from the clouds, splashing against the windows until soon enough it's torrentially downpouring. I smile to myself at the thought of Peeta's unfortunate timing. He's probably scrambling around the yard, soaking wet at this point. I peer out of the window expecting to see him making a dash for cover and am jolted with panic.

He's standing in the middle of the backyard with the firewood scattered around him, completely forgotten. He's staring up at the clouds with his eyes eyebrows together and fists clenched. He must not be able to feel anything, because his knuckles must be throbbing.

I open the door and approach him slowly. I don't want to trigger him, so I take my time, making sure he can see me coming. I eye him steadily, assessing his face. He doesn't look angry, so I immediately let out a sigh of relief.

"Peeta?" I say cautiously.

He continues to stare into the sky. I'm not sure if he realizes I'm there.

I take a few steps closer. He's still as a stone. I feel my teeth chatter. If we stay out here much longer, we're going to get sick. I reach my hand out tentatively and grasp his. It's warm and soft, just like I remembered it. He doesn't look at me, but he squeezes my hand weakly.

I don't know if I'm strong enough to do this much longer. Peeta's sick, and no matter how hard I try there's nothing I can do to help. I feel sobs building in my chest. I'm helpless to his pain.

But I've done this before, haven't I? I've taken care of him when all hope was lost. I'm abruptly taken back to our cave. The sound of the rain beating against the rocks. Peeta's fever. His warm hands in mine. He was dying then, and somehow I mustered up the strength to be strong for him. I have to do it again.

"Do you want me to tell you a story?" I say soothingly, rubbing my thumb against the inside of his palm.

He finally closes his eyes and nods slowly. I half laugh and half sob as I start to tell him, for the second time, the story about how I got Prim's goat, Lady, for her birthday. I wonder if he remembers it. He doesn't interrupt, but keeps his eyes closed the whole time, letting rain fall onto his weary face. When I'm finished, I gently tug on his hand and he looks down at me for the first time with a small smile on his lips. I see a flicker of recognition in his eyes, and something tells me he remembers our days we spent in the cave together.


End file.
